


Red Lines and City Lights

by awkwardgturtle



Series: Lines'verse [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Prostitution, hooker!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardgturtle/pseuds/awkwardgturtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick is just a regular city boy, trying to make his way home when he meets Pete, a prostitute that works the subway for clients. Patrick has never been tempted more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Lines and City Lights

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, my disclaimer for this is that I wrote this all in one sitting at two in the morning and it's five in the morning now so it's probably not terribly coherent but I can't be bothered with a beta right now, so here is a hooker AU in all its unpolished glory. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> There might be more to this 'Verse, so I could be convinced to make a sequel.

Chicago is beautiful at night. Tall buildings and brilliant lights dot the skyline in a dazzling display as the train barrels away from the Loop and toward the outskirts where Patrick’s meager apartment lies in wait. Sometimes he regrets taking the tech job at a club that makes him stay so late so far from his home, but when he can watch the glittering city from the tinged windows of the Red Line, now is not one of those times. Nor are the time he gets to stay and watch the bands he sets up for, or the times he gets to jam with the band members before the show goes on. Besides, at god-knows-when in the morning, he sometimes gets a car to himself. Not often, but it happens, especially if he rides in the car on the very end. Okay, maybe he doesn’t regret it all that much.

Still, there are times when he second-guesses his choices. Like when a man with crooked glasses and looks like he hasn’t showered in days steps into the otherwise empty car and stands by the door for several seconds, eyeing Patrick up and down. Before Patrick can gather the presence of mind to seek some kind of help, the man turns on his heel abruptly and gets off the train just as the doors start to close. Patrick knows his face is red from the attention, so he pulls up his hood and turns up his music to calm himself.

It doesn’t help that, at the very next stop, a small tanned dude in a tight shirt and even tighter jeans flops down in the seat across from him and starts talking. Patrick pauses his music and yanks out his headphones. “What?”

“I said, where are we going?”

Going? “…What?”

The man’s eyes narrow slightly, as if he’s trying to figure Patrick out. “You know, a location. Your place, a motel, a car, something. I’m not picky.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Patrick says slowly, hoping it’s enough for this guy to leave him alone.

No such luck because the man just snorts and shakes his head. “Well, we’re not staying here. I don’t do public sex.”

“Sex?!” Patrick squeaks, probably too loudly for the man’s liking because he flinches and waves his hand to quiet him down.

“Not so loud, Jesus,” he hisses, then tilts his head. “So I’ve got the wrong guy, then.”

“Decidedly,” Patrick confirms, working one of his buds back into his ear, hoping to signal that their conversation is over.

This tactic of evasion doesn’t work either, apparently, since the guy is now sliding into the seat next to Patrick and murmuring into his unoccupied ear. “Well, you could be the right guy for the right price, you know,” the man says, his voice dropping to something low and seductive that sets Patrick’s blood on fire. A hand drops to his thigh and squeezes, scattering Patrick’s thoughts.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. He knows he should, but if he’s honest with himself, he finds himself tempted. The man’s method of seduction is effective if the interest his dick is taking is any indication, and he never really thought he’d have the opportunity to pick up a prostitute before now… Still, he manages to tear himself away from the man, shaking his head hard. “I’m not going to hire you.”

The guy frowns. “Why not?”

“First of all, it’s illegal,” Patrick points out, earning him an eyeroll. “Second, I just got done with work and I’m tired, and third, you’re really not my type.” The last one is a blatant lie, but no one needs to know that.

A smirk plays on the corners of the prostitute’s lips. “You’re a liar.” Patrick’s face heats up, thinking for a second that he may have been figured out, but instead the man says, “I think you don’t think you can afford me.” He stands up and cocks his hip a bit as they slow for the next stop. It takes all Patrick’s willpower not to stare at the bare strip of skin exposed under his shirt. “You’re probably right.” With that, he saunters off the train.

 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

 

For the next week, Patrick rides in a different car. He doesn’t want to – he cherishes the small moments of privacy after work to take cars with people in them – but he’s too afraid to run into the prostitute again. He didn’t look dangerous, only that he could probably hold his own in a fight, but that really wasn’t what it was about. It was about… well, he isn’t quite sure. He certainly isn’t going to fall victim to the man’s wiles, though. He prides himself on being fairly virtuous.

It seems to work, as he doesn’t run into him at all that week. Or the next week. Or the next. When he finally figures it’s safe, he goes back to the end car and curls up on the seat. He desperately missed having a car to himself so he could lean against the window and watch the lights go by without the strange looks. Lady luck seems to have it out for him, though, because three stops in, a familiar body slides up next to him. _Fuck._

“So you owe me like, six hundred bucks,” the man says, skipping any greetings.

“I do not,” Patrick replies automatically before he can tell himself he shouldn’t be talking to this man.

“You totally do,” the guy says, only scooting closer when Patrick tries to put some space between them. “Turns out my client showed up, saw this cute blonde, thought it was me and chickened out. You totally cost me a paying customer.”

“I scared him off?” Patrick wonders, looking down at himself as if he weren’t still short and twiggy and overall the least intimidating person alive.

He coos in a way that really should not have Patrick blushing the way he is. “Scared him off with your adorableness. Still, you owe me.”

“I’m not paying you six hundred bucks,” Patrick huffs. “It’s hardly my fault your client had cold feet.”

“Aw, come on, I needed that client,” he sighs. “Okay, how about this: you take me home, I give you the night of your life and then you give me the money you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you shit,” Patrick insists. “Also, wouldn’t that be considered hiring you?”

He snaps his fingers. “Damn, you’ve seen through my cunning ruse. You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?”

“Sharper than a guy who didn’t tell his client what he looked like,” Patrick shoots back and the guy clutches his heart theatrically.

“That’s hurtful, man. I’m going to need like, four hundred more just for the therapy I’ll need after this conversation.”

“Well, that’s just too bad.”

The guy looks like he wants to say more, but the train is already pulling into the next stop, so he leaves Patrick to his silence instead. Before the door closes, however, he turns and says, “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” Patrick says confidently, though he sees the flash of a knowing smile before the train pulls away. “I’m not going to change my mind,” he repeats to the empty car. He doesn’t think it believes him.

 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

 

On Saturday night, Patrick is rushing around the club, setting up equipment, checking sound and generally running himself ragged. His superiors told him that Arma Angelus, one of the bigger bands on the scene is coming to play and everything needs to be _perfect_ if they’re ever going to play there again. He wants to get mostly set up before the band arrives, but considering how it’s going, that isn’t going to happen.

As if on cue, unfamiliar voices drift down the hall from the service entrance. Patrick curses and looks around, praying that all of his work wasn’t for naught. The thought immediately leaves his head when the band rounds the corner and he nearly chokes on his own tongue. There, standing between his bandmates, stood a short, tanned man with a grin like the world can’t touch him. He’s still wearing painted-on jeans, but now he’s wearing a hoodie instead of a shrunken t-shirt. “Nice place,” he says as he looks Patrick over. “Cute staff, too.”

 “Come on, Pete,” one of his bandmates groan as they elbow past him. “At least keep it in your pants until after the show.”

“Now where’s the fun in that?” The prosti- er, _Pete_ chuckles as he hands Patrick a guitar case. “Take care of that, will you?”

Patrick nods a little too hard and scurries off, clutching the guitar case tighter than is entirely necessary. Oh god, oh _god_ , he’s setting up for not only one of the chief bands in the Chicago scene but also the band of a hooker he met on the Red Line. Seriously, how fucked was his life? Still, it was his job, so he tried to keep himself busy. Too busy to think about it. Also too busy to have to speak with the band. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be much of a deterrent to a certain sharp-hipped and sharper-eyed member.

“So,” Pete says from behind him, making him jump and nearly drop the bass he was tuning, “I never got your name before. Also, try to be careful with that. It’s custom.”

“Sorry,” Patrick mutters, his hands tightening on the neck. “And, uh. It’s Patrick.”

He doesn’t look at Pete, though, even when he sits on the amp next to him. “Patrick, huh? Do you like your job here?” he asks, like he’s just making friendly conversation.

And hey, maybe he was, so Patrick shrugs. “It’s cool, I guess. It pays.”

“I know the feeling.”

And just like that, Patrick’s mouth goes dry. He swallows thickly and lets out as easy a chuckle as he can manage before he goes back to tuning the bass. When he finishes, he turns to see Pete watching him intently, something like curiosity written on his features. Something about the openness of the expression pulls a question out of Patrick before he can help it. “Do they know?” He flaps a hand in the general direction of the greenroom. “About… you know.”

Pete smiles, but looks more sad than anything. “Nah. No one really knows. How do you even bring up something like that anyway? ‘Hey, so the band isn’t making enough so I’m selling my body. I hope that’s cool.’ You can’t really just say that.” He leans back on his hands with a sigh. “I kind of wish they did, you know? Maybe it wouldn’t feel so shameful if one of my friends knew.”

“I know,” Patrick offers, but it isn’t much consolation if his snort is anything to go by.

“Thanks for that, Patrick, but I think maybe you’re just a little too good to be my friend.” Pete slides off the amp before Patrick can think too hard on it. “I’ve got to go. They’re going to let the kids in soon.”

He walks out without another word, leaving Patrick to dwell on his words. He doesn’t want Pete to be ashamed of what he does, and just how the hell is Patrick too good to be his friend? It’s the last part that burns him the most, though he can’t quite place why. Sure, Patrick likes to think of himself as a decent guy, but Pete seems like a good guy, too. And sure, Patrick wasn’t a prostitute but it wasn’t like he was some sort of angel either.

Just as Pete predicted, the crowd began to seep in through the entrances, so he finishes with the guitar and ducks backstage, all the while formulating a plan in his head. He’d show Pete he wasn’t all good if it was the last thing he did.

 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

 

It may turn out that showing Pete his dirty side may actually be the last thing he does because the plan he comes up with carries an extreme risk of alienating Pete forever, but it’s the only one he’s got. Arma kills it on stage, so Patrick is hopeful that Pete’s good mood from the show will give him a little bit of leeway. The band is still celebrating when he sneaks into the greenroom, popping open cans of beer and talking too loudly about just how pumped they are. Pete notices him, of course, but not before their drummer shoves a beer can into his hand.

He almost puts it back down, but Pete is right there and he’s trying to prove he’s not a delicate flower, so he pops it open and takes a quarter of the can in one drink. It’s nasty, but he manages not to choke on it. Pete smiles at him, and he thinks that maybe he can get away with this, so he sits on the couch next to Pete and leans in close. “So I’ve got that money I owe you.”

Pete chokes on his drink a bit, but he recovers quickly. “Do you?” he asks, his voice dipping low like it did on the train.

Patrick tried to suppress the shiver that bolts up his spine. “Yeah. If you come back to my place, you could pick it up.”

Pete doesn’t look at him, but he nods stiffly. “We can take my car. I’m not taking the train.”

“Deal.”

Pete stands, his charming smile back in place. “Good show, guys, but I have to take off. I’ve got a thing in the morning. Can’t miss it.” His bandmates groan and call him a killjoy, but let him go without much more fuss.

The drive to Patrick’s apartment is quieter than he expects, but every time he tries to spark up a conversation, Pete barely responds. Even body language is different, going from some guy lounging on a couch with his friends to straight up professional in minutes flat and Patrick just knows he’s made a huge mistake.

Pete lets him lead the way into his apartment, though he follows close enough that Patrick can feel his heat as he fumbles his key into the lock. Once inside, Pete wastes no time in stripping. “Six hundred only gets you a few hours, just so you know. Don’t expect me to stick around after that or I’ll have to charge you extra.”

Guilt is already twisting in Patrick stomach and he wonders how exactly he ever thought this was going to be a good idea. Soon Pete is unclothed and Patrick is being pulled toward his bedroom and god, he is in way over his head. Except when they get there, Pete smiles almost seductively, effortlessly cutting through the tension. “So are you going to get out of that or am I going to have to tear it off you?”

“Maybe I want you to tear it off,” Patrick shoots back, even though he’s already tugging his shirt over his head. It is one of his favorites, after all.

Before he gets much further, Pete reels him in by his belt loop and purrs too close to his ear. “No, I think you’re more the gentle type.”

The words reignite the flames in Patrick’s belly, so he shoves Pete back and onto the bed with a growl. “You don’t know shit about me.”

Pete moans and spreads his legs for show. “Prove it, babyface.”

Patrick’s crawling over Pete in seconds, biting hard at his shoulder and collar. “Shut up,” he hisses, reaching into his nightstand for condoms and lube. He shoves his fingers roughly into Pete as soon as he gets the chance, drawing out a startled gasp.

“Feisty,” Pete pants. “Bet you can’t keep it up. Bet you’re gonna fuck me like the delicate little kitten you are.”

“Fuck you,” Patrick snaps, stretching Pete haphazardly before flicking his jeans open and pushing them down just enough for his cock to bob out, too impatient to wrestle them off over his shoes. He presses into Pete faster than he normally would, though he still listens for any hints of pain in Pete’s shameless groaning.

“Yeah, fuck me,” Pete encourages, grinding his hips hard and dirty against Patrick. “Show me how rough you really are.”

Patrick growls again, slamming into Pete as hard as he dares, watching as he throws his head back in pleasure. He doesn’t know how much of Pete’s rapture is genuine or if he’s just faking for the cash, but the reaction spurs Patrick on, fucking Pete with everything he has. “Want to hear you,” he mutters into Pete’s neck. “I want you to come screaming my name. I’ve wanted it so bad, since the moment you stepped on that train.”

“Patrick,” Pete moans experimentally, and damn if his name didn’t sound forty times hotter on his lips. “Patrick, I’m so close. Please…”

Patrick grunts and hitches Pete’s leg over his shoulder, changing the angle just enough to have Pete crying out wildly.

“God, yes! Please, right there! Patrick, fuck!” Pete scrambles to get a hand on himself, but it’s hardly necessary. He arches and comes, crying Patrick’s name just like he asked, and that little detail brings Patrick tumbling over the edge with him. “Fuck,” he breathes again, and Patrick hums his agreement.

They lie there for a few moments, but soon Pete is rolling Patrick away from him. “Hey, come back,” Patrick protests, but Pete is already sitting up and checking his phone.

“We still have time for another round,” he says casually, “but I don’t indulge in cuddling. Sends the wrong message, you know?”

Patrick thumps his head back against the pillow. And he thought this had gone so well. “I’m a fucking idiot,” he laments to the ceiling.

 Pete makes an acknowledging noise as he sets his phone aside. “A lot of people regret sex with me. It usually comes later, though.”

“That’s not it,” Patrick assures. “Trust me, I don’t regret having sex with you, I regret hiring you for it.”

Pete’s brow furrows. “Isn’t that the point of this whole thing?”

“No!” Patrick groans, “That’s not the point of this at all. The point was…” he rubs his hands over his face. The truth sounds a whole lot more pathetic now that he has time to think it through. “The point was that I didn’t want you to feel bad about this. I thought I could use this to get closer to you so maybe you could have someone that knew and didn’t mind.”

Pete blinks slowly at him. “You wanted to make me feel better about prostitution,” he says slowly, “so you hired me for prostitution?”

“I’m a fucking idiot,” Patrick says again, as if it explains how illogical it all was. “Look, I think you’re a pretty cool guy, and I want to hang out and talk about music and maybe go to shows sometimes, but I also want you to know that it’s all fine, okay? As long as you’re safe and not hurting anyone, no one has a right to judge you.”

Pete laughs hollowly. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

“Well, let me be the first.”

A soft smile graces his features before he leans over to peer at the clock. “Time’s up, by the way.”

Patrick sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t suppose you take checks, do you?” Damn, did that sound sordid out loud.

Pete laughs genuinely at that, shaking his head fondly as he stands. “I’ll take it any way I can get it, usually, but I think I can let this one slide.”

Patrick pauses bucking his jeans to process the words. “…What?”

“I said I’ll let it go for now,” Pete says, now leaning against the doorway, still stark naked. His lips quirk into a smile. “It’s not like we won’t see each other, right? I’ll just put it on your tab.”

Patrick laughs to himself. Apparently he was now the kind of guy that racks up a tab with a local prostitute. Still, he returns the smile. “Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind.”

Pete winks slyly and slips out the door. Perhaps this could work out after all.


End file.
